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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506055">Violent Weather</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakdancingfish/pseuds/breakdancingfish'>breakdancingfish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lighthouse (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Lobster, M/M, the title is a spoiler oops</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:03:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakdancingfish/pseuds/breakdancingfish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No one kills a seabird. The bad luck comes anyway.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Violent Weather</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two men arrived to keep a colorless lighthouse. They could have passed for father and son, since the bleak weather rendered them in matching bleakness as well. The elder was named Wake, and though he’d longed to be a pirate in his youth, the captains weren’t recruiting and had to earn his income elseways. The younger, taller man called himself Winslow. He claimed the money was all that mattered to him, but he might have just been lying to himself. Hard to say. </p>
<p>Within minutes Winslow had completed a tour of the living quarters. Items which should have been locked were locked, so his first discovery was that even when inside the shelter, the sound of the wind was enough to produce a chill. The temperature didn’t seem to have an influence on Wake, as he removed his coat much faster. His leg probably would have been weak in any weather. </p>
<p>The first fart went by without comment, appropriate since the stench was in fact inexcusable. Perhaps Wake was too senile to register what he’d done and it wouldn’t happen again. Or perhaps it was a bit of new roommate hazing, a way of marking his territory. Whatever the reason, the second had Winslow envisioning ways of making his boss choke on his own wind. </p>
<p>When Winslow found the mermaid in his mattress, he named her Melusine. You see, he had plans for that figurine, and he’d always wanted to know the name of anyone he fucked. A twist of logic told him that no one could fuck him over if no one knew his name, one of the many games he played with himself. </p>
<p>Winslow’s first task was continuing the cacophony, auditorily advising the sailors to avoid their rock. The nearness of the noise made him want to take the advice himself. It was the first of several times Winslow had to recall that the assignment was for no more than a month. The only positive was that the repeated shoveling was enough exercise to momentarily forget the frigid environment. </p>
<p>“Lad.” Hearing Wake’s voice at the table was a bit jarring after only hearing the horn for so long. It was unexpectedly welcoming. “Have a drink.”</p>
<p>“Is that an order, sir?” Winslow asked as he accepted the cup. </p>
<p>“Aye, y’ain’t cleaned the cistern yet.” </p>
<p>Winslow nodded and took a sip. It wasn’t good by any means, but his chest quickly sensed its warmth. Winslow took a large mouthful, then thought of a question. “Why wouldn’t the last men have cleaned it?”</p>
<p>“Long as their stash holds out, their lips wouldn’t touch the water.” </p>
<p>Winslow was starting to think his first impression of the man was wrong, but the feeling was gone when Wake staked his claim to the light. It seemed Winslow wouldn’t even set foot upon the highest level of the lighthouse. Although he supposed that meant he could sleep a little more, Winslow was still irked by the man’s possessive attitude. As if he owned all the government property. As Wake detailed the work Winslow would actually be doing, he comprehended that those mechanisms were necessary to operate Wake’s precious light. Winslow took comfort in the knowledge that he could sabotage the beacon at any moment he so desired. The injury might be fatal. </p>
<p>Nevertheless, from the coast in the middle of the night, Winslow could see the appeal. The luminous reflection against the surface of the sea called to him. As in a trance, Winslow traipsed beyond the shore and into the shallows. The black water turned out to be the coldest he’d ever experienced, and yet he wasn’t turning back, hypnotized as he was by the shine. As he stared, the light slowly morphed into skin. A fish tail rose from the depths, and somehow it managed to look menacing. Winslow retreated. </p>
<p>First thing the next morning, Wake was insisting that Winslow get started on his duties while crawling onto his own bed. If Winslow had wanted to ask any questions, he was out of luck as Wake passed out immediately. Winslow stared at his body on the bunk, confounded by both Wake’s ability to retain employment and his talent at barking orders. He realized he wanted two Wakes, one to take abuse and one to give it. Winslow just knew the old man would be excellent at both. </p>
<p>As Winslow conquered various assignments, he encountered a one-eyed seagull. He could have sworn the bird nodded at him as he steered back the empty wheelbarrow. Winslow didn’t want to be rude, so he returned the nod in acknowledgement. It promptly flew away, and Winslow shook off the moment. </p>
<p>He assumed the old man had named the light. Wake certainly didn’t tilt his ear toward the incessant horn as though it were a siren’s song. It was the droning of the island’s heartbeat after all, and that scrap of land was far from lovable. Winslow stood close enough to feel the vibration in his bones. </p>
<p>“Your new friend help you fly that up here?” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>The old man gestured to the oil drum. “Saw you socializing with a seabird earlier.” He tossed a much smaller empty vessel at Winslow. “Use that next time.” </p>
<p>Wake pushed the key into the keyhole and twisted it with a clank. Winslow chalked it up to a sense of order, putting things where they belong. Because thinking otherwise, that Wake might look down on him not just literally but metaphorically as well, was not an option. A sudden all-encompassing ache for the man’s approval simmered in Winslow’s core as he lugged the container back down the stairs. </p>
<p>Of course he couldn’t vocalize anything of the sort. So when Wake warned him against boredom, Winslow finally put the figurine to work, fantasizing the most devious yet still desirable creature his imagination could procure while abusing himself. He wanted Melusine’s cunt to consume his head like a Venus flytrap. As she spat in his face, he looked down and found it was time to clean up his spunk. Somehow thoughts immediately returned to his boss. He’d told Winslow to do his work with a smile, and smile Winslow did. </p>
<p>The first time Wake mentioned his pretty face, he feigned offence, but noticed a feeling in his gut which matched falling from the tallest tree in the forest. The comment forced him to examine the old man’s appearance with more consideration, and eventually concluded that Wake had been quite handsome in a past life. Also, that his hair was the personification of a hurricane. Once the idea was in his mind, Winslow desperately craved an opportunity to dive his hands into the strands and see if they’d be shipwrecked. </p>
<p>Counting sheep wasn’t working. Instead Winslow focused on Wake’s needles knitting whatever that was he thought the yarn should be. Possibly a scarf, wrapping around Winslow’s neck, growing tighter and tighter. As even the end fringes dug into his flesh, the hypothetical loss of oxygen brought on immense calm and he slept peacefully for the first time in weeks. Well, mostly. </p>
<p>A disembodied voice was so clear in Winslow’s dream, he immediately sat upright, looking for the speaker. As consciousness arrived, he registered that no one was there. </p>
<p>“I dreamt of a mermaid riding a horse.”</p>
<p>“She have two tails? Or was she riding side-saddle?” </p>
<p>He side-eyed Wake, attempting to convey his contempt for the question, what with insinuating the new wickie was making it up as he went along. Sensing he was failing, Winslow merely responded with “One tail… this massive stallion was galloping along the coast, and every stamp of hooves sent the rocks underneath into the sea.” </p>
<p>“Sounds like the lass was redecorating.” </p>
<p>“It sounded like she was laughing.” </p>
<p>Wake grunted his acknowledgement, adding “Sounds like a nightmare.” </p>
<p>Constant rain covered the island. The relief crew did not arrive. Time grew meaningless. The makeshift understanding between the two men quickly deteriorated, and alcohol only hastened the process. Winslow attempted to confess something, though he wasn’t sure exactly what… what… what it was. Despite this failure, he learned a few of Wake’s weaknesses, thus the ordeal wasn’t completely unproductive. Winslow revealed his own too, sporadically sobbing along with the precipitation. </p>
<p>Wake’s capacity for anger seemed limitless. With the sensitivity regarding cooking skills already revealed, the perfect time to test it had to be the next time lobster was served. A game to play together. Deliberately making a show of being unable to remove the meat from the shell, he gave up with a slam of his utensils against the table, forcing it to wobble. Wake slowly finished his current bite, then muttered, “Best not waste food boy. Supplies are getting low.” </p>
<p>“Not hungry,” he lied. He was starving constantly, insatiable. Nothing could quench his desire. Winslow licked the rim of his cup for good measure. </p>
<p>Wake seemed to be letting the issue pass, but after another gulp of grog, he added, “Gotta keep up strength for returning to the mainland.” Winslow watched his Adam’s apple move with the next swallow, then pounced. </p>
<p>“Think I’m strong enough for the both of us. Wouldn’t you agree, old man?” </p>
<p>That was it, the previously unspoken label finally left his lips as the perfect catalyst. Wake was suddenly straddling his lap, having seized the lobster en route. He gripped Winslow’s jaw while shoving the lifeless animal into his mouth, the tail barely brushing the back of his throat. But it wasn’t enough, and he did his best to take the crustacean even deeper, prompting Wake’s eyes to grow impossibly wider. He caught on quickly, and started thrusting the lobster, progressively working up speed. </p>
<p>His hand stilled as Winslow’s eyes watered, then gradually removed the animal, now missing a hindleg. Wake tenderly tilted his head back and reached into the orifice with two fingers, finding the appendage behind the molars. As it was removed, a thumb brushed gently over Winslow’s swollen lower lip. Wake’s face was close enough to bite. Instead, Wake’s other thumb wiped away a tear just before delivering a swift slap. </p>
<p>Winslow contemplated death. Perhaps the tender had capsized and the men had become part of the sea. If Winslow could choose a way to go, it would be by drowning. Perhaps at low tide, Wake could bury all but his head in the sand. And then, as the returning water approached his chin and Winslow tilted his head back for one last glance at the sky, Wake would give him an overwhelming kiss and steal all the air from his lungs. The taste of Wake’s abnormally salty, chapped lips would be Winslow’s last sensation before being overtaken by the ocean. </p>
<p>Wake was right. The monotony was terrible. Winslow wanted to scream at it but didn’t know where to face. He settled for screaming in conjunction with the horn. The pain of tedium physically manifested as periodically bashing his skull against the nearest hard surface. The downpour developed into a storm. </p>
<p>The next time Winslow touched himself, all the pent-up frustration meant Melusine was not working. Somehow he knew that no human prick could satisfy her, which in turn made the image unsatisfactory. Winslow wondered what it would take, how much girth would she require, what beast could even come close? Visions of writhing tentacles came into focus, enough to fuck and choke at the same time. Maybe restrain as well. That got Winslow going again, but suddenly he was the one being restrained, soggy limbs keeping him pressed against the ground and pushing apart his legs. A line of suction bowls attached from the middle of his chest to a thigh, as though intentionally avoiding more sensitive areas. Fingerlike appendages gripped Winslow’s throat, clenching with surprising humanity. So Winslow shouldn’t have been surprised when he tilted his head back to meet the haunting eyes of Wake’s grizzled face atop the mythical creature. Furthermore, at that point he really shouldn’t have been surprised that the realization had him immediately howling out his finish. Yet Winslow was still hurting. </p>
<p>They continued most of the typical maintenance as though nothing were wrong. Albeit with increased liquor consumption. When Wake instructed him to take up a task, Winslow tended to forego any commentary and accomplish it immediately. This method seemed to be the best way to tamp down any burgeoning fury over mistreatment. Plus it had the advantage of putting Wake in a better mood, less inclined to fight and more inclined to dance. Winslow preferred the latter. Admittedly, he took whatever he could get. </p>
<p>Their refuge was unlikely to withstand the onslaught. The constant creaking grew progressively louder with each new gale. The walls were disintegrating with too many leaks to count. And the incessant thunder made the foghorn pointless. </p>
<p>“We must abandon this rock.” Winslow stared at Wake, baffled that the keeper was capable of suggesting leaving. </p>
<p>“But the light, they’ll stand no chance without it.” </p>
<p>Wake shoved a life vest into his arms. “There’s lightning enough to see. Anyone crazy enough to still be afloat in this tumult has luck on his side.” </p>
<p>“Then what does that make us?” </p>
<p>Wake pulled his hat down until it could no longer move. “Desperate.” Winslow was about to protest, claim that he could stay until Wake came back, but was cut off when he added, “and better together.” It dawned on Winslow for the first time that he wanted to trust him, yearned for it even. </p>
<p>So the two men pulled the small boat to the docking zone. Despite the short trip, it already had water pooling in the bottom. Wake turned to go get buckets, as they would likely have to be bailing throughout the entire trip. Winslow tilted the vessel to the side, then sought the dryness in his pockets. A seagull landed on the farther end. Winslow nodded, but the bird was not the same he had encountered previously. As soon as it squawked, the dory was struck by lightning. The remains fueled an unexpectedly large fire. </p>
<p>Winslow leaned closer to the flames, optimistic that he could finally thaw. Before he could lift a foot though, Wake jerked him away. The palm on Winslow’s shoulder was warm, hot, scalding even. He ducked his head to reposition Wake’s fingers onto his scalp, hoping the flesh would melt his brain. Wake tugged his head down to eyelevel, and pleaded, “Let’s get back to shelter.” </p>
<p>Winslow nodded but didn’t follow as Wake headed toward their living quarters. Catching on that he wasn’t coming yet, Wake returned and took Winslow’s arm, guiding him the whole distance to the building. Just before the door, Wake switched to a hand on the lowest part of Winslow’s back. He mumbled something about it not mattering. Lifeboats are for the living. It was for the best that Wake didn’t ask for clarification. Winslow couldn’t explain it himself. </p>
<p>“Why do you love the light?” he asked, expecting a denial. The prediction was wrong. </p>
<p>After an extended sigh, Wake explained. “When I’m up there, close as possible to the shine…” He pulled off his hat, gesturing like he was struggling for the right words. “There’s a sensation. It’s as though…” Wake looked directly at Winslow’s eyes for the first time since the question was asked. “Don’t you love the light?” </p>
<p>“Don’t know…” Winslow didn’t want to be accusatory when they seemed to be making progress. “I haven’t really had any intimate experience with it.” </p>
<p>After a pause, Wake murmured, “Come with me.” Winslow was frozen in disbelief. Louder, pushing, Wake added, “That’s an order.” The life vest fell to the floor. </p>
<p>The exertion of ascending the spiral staircase seemed nonexistent. The anticipation was too overwhelming. The weather was forgotten. </p>
<p>As Wake stepped through the hatch, an expectation of rejection came over Winslow once again. He was glad to be proven incorrect, yet afraid to look straight into the light. Thus Winslow first noticed his boss removing articles of clothing, then found the same fear unexpectedly shifting his glance. There it was, the infamous blaze, instantly removing all the nameless troubles which had been weighing on him. Not only since alighting on the island, not only since taking leave of the Hudson, not only since being forced to fend for himself in the world, and not only since existing as a naïve child, but since before he was even born. He instantly understood why Wake could not define the experience. </p>
<p>And the heat. Oh God, the heat. Without consciously intending to, Winslow stripped until his torso was also bare, excepting the sheen of sweat. Were he to spontaneously combust, the only disappointment would be the end of the unexplained pleasure. Winslow was crying but made no effort to wipe his face. </p>
<p>“You’ve got it now.” Distinctly not a question, yet Winslow nodded anyway. His body felt fullness for the first time. “Please forgive me son, I’ve been greedy.” The unusual tone actually pulled Winslow’s eyes away, and it was as though he were seeing Wake for the first time. “I didn’t think it could improve, but somehow it’s stronger with your presence.” </p>
<p>The sails beckoned. Winslow reached out for Wake’s chest, careful to touch only the faded ink. He made a ritual out of tracing every line of the ship. On the brink of pulling away, Wake reverently demanded more. Winslow automatically complied with an aye sir, and repeated the process with the tip of his tongue. Their height difference made the position awkward, but Winslow couldn’t bother caring as Wake started slowly lowering his pants. Finally, after the need had been building for an eternity, he would at last be satisfied. On the other hand, something was wrong. Winslow stilled Wake’s motion while dropping to his knees.</p>
<p>“Thomas.” </p>
<p>“Hmm?” </p>
<p>“My real name is Thomas.” Wake only gave him a glance of suspicion, so he explained. “Ephraim Winslow is my logging buddy. He knew I needed away from the trees, and had the connections with the establishment to get the wickie job, so he got hired for the position and I gave his name at the dock.” </p>
<p>Wake started shaking his head, his mouth opening, but he didn’t know what to say. </p>
<p>“If it helps, you can still call me Winslow.” </p>
<p>He didn’t consider why he was telling the truth until he’d already told it. He could have written it off to the surroundings, that the brilliance required honesty, but subconsciously deduced that he must have needed Wake to know his real name for some reason. He couldn’t just keep lying until they disembarked when Wake’s eyes were pouring into his soul. As it looked more and more like they’d never make it back to the mainland anyway, the constant want overtook all other brain activity. </p>
<p>Wake stopped shaking his head to decline. “No. It’s Tommy now. Winslow is only for the log.” He dropped to his knees as well, deftly pulling out both their cocks and bringing them together. Winslow – strike that, Tommy – caught on and gripped along the opposite side, stroking in sync with Wake. He couldn’t last, not with the new calloused friction and the proximity to the illumination and it had been so long, or maybe the same day, who could tell. But the most influential factor had to be Wake’s voice, encouraging him between breathy moans with yeses and that’s it and good job. Then when they could barely remain upright, so close to bursting, Wake whispered “Let go.” Tommy obeyed of course, convulsing into his release, loud enough to be heard on the ocean floor. As the lantern room vibrated from the thunder, Wake coated their stomachs with his own load.</p>
<p>The keepers collapsed onto the walkway, staring up in silence, as though unwilling to break the spell. Occasional lightning competed for their attention, but they paid it no heed. Tommy wound his hand into Wake’s hair, fulfilling the wish he’d been harboring for so long. He would have been content to stay in that space, grasping the strands for what remained of his life. However, they sat up when the lighthouse started shaking violently. The first window shatter allowed the rain to enter. The second created a vacuum, strong enough to require bracing. Before either could suggest covering the holes with boards, the earthquake split the island, as though a fault passed directly through the breezeway. The tower toppled, taking the two men crashing through a multitude of glass. The final gasp of the foghorn morphed into a gurgle as it sank beneath the surface. Afterward the remaining jagged hazards were left with no system in place to warn those who might encounter them. </p>
<p>The lens managed to protect the light temporarily, although the increasing distance under the water had it already dimming. Wake was swimming like a fish toward the new shoreline, but Tommy had no desire to escape. He would go down with the lantern. He deliberately ignored both the freezing temperature and the burning in his lungs as he chased the beacon into the depths, more siren-like than the mermaid ever was. A small part in the back of Tommy’s mind prayed that the glow would guide him to salvation, preferably in the form of a stern but accommodating sea monster.</p>
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